


Fine art and debauchery

by LostinFic



Series: Mercier x Betty oneshots [7]
Category: A Passionate Woman (TV), Spies of Warsaw (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gratuitous French, One Shot, Semi-Public Sex, Teninch Fic, museum sex, romanticization of Paris
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-18
Updated: 2016-03-18
Packaged: 2018-05-27 13:13:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6286096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LostinFic/pseuds/LostinFic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Betty’s first time in Paris with Jean-François isn’t as idyllic as forethought. He takes her to the Louvre, and they find a rather unorthodox way of relaxing and appreciating art (by which I mean sex, of course).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fine art and debauchery

**Author's Note:**

> Part of the Perversions Délicates ‘verse, but can be read on its own I think.
> 
> Thanks to Foxy for reading this while I was struggling with it.

During the Second World War, many of the Louvre’s masterpieces were evacuated. Venus and Ramses II were carefully wrapped up and carried to _châteaux_ in the countryside. By the time the Nazis invaded, the great museum was practically empty. Sure, the Germans reopened it, but it was but an empty shell. Vegetables were grown in ornamental gardens and 16th century buildings were damaged by bombs.

 

It had taken two years and major renovations, but the museum had reopened at last with all its masterpieces in their rightful place. It’s not the Mona Lisa, however, that was on Betty’s mind right now, but something far more trivial: what does one wear at the Louvre? She imagined the museum to be filled with posh or cool artsy people. She belonged to neither category.

 

Betty inspected her outfit in front of the bedroom mirror. She’d remodeled a mint green dress— shortened the skirt, removed the sleeves and added a white collar— based on what Parisian women wore, but she still hesitated to wear it.

“You could have bought a new one,” Jean-François said.

“Don’t you like it?”

Truth was, she never wanted to be accused of loving him for his money.

“I like this.” He pecked the exposed freckle on her shoulder then finished buttoning up his pinstripe shirt.

 

They exited their temporary home, an army-loaned apartment in the 8th _arrondissement_ , on a street she couldn’t pronounce the name of. They’d been here for a week— longer if you count the days at Gabrielle’s— and she still wasn’t used to it. She turned left, and he steered her to the right, towards the metro station.

 

They’d come here for his work, and he worked a lot. Long hours that left him tired and frustrated. It wasn’t going well, perhaps because of how he’d left things in Africa, but he wouldn’t talk about it. At night, they met up with his old friends and family members. Betty’s self-imposed pressure to please them only added to the stress of being away from her home town. Jean-François assured her she had nothing to fear, but it didn’t help much.

 

It was Gabrielle’s idea to visit the museum. It would be fun, or so Betty tried to convince herself. She enjoyed her sister-in-law’s company, but she knew next to nothing about art whereas Gabrielle worked in that field.

“Then you will learn something new and so will I,” Jean-François had said simply.

 

Soon, the familiar green Art Nouveau entrance of the metro came into view. As they waited for the train to arrive, Betty scanned the ads displayed in the tunnel and pointed out the French words she recognized: _savon_ , _parfum_ , _Folies Bergères_. On the way there, he told her what he knew of the Louvre’s history, but nothing could have prepared her for its vastness. She knew it used to be a palace, but she never imagined it would be bigger than Buckingham.

“And it’s filled with paintings?” she asked. “Nothing else? Must be used for something else.”

“There are sculptures too, artifacts, Napoleon’s apartments...”

“Oh, but we’ll never be able to see it all tonight.”

“No, I think that would be impossible. But if you like it, we can come back.”

Once inside, she couldn’t stop gawking at the painted ceiling and ornate columns. All these reds and golds and cherubs, and they weren’t even the main attraction. She’d hate to be the one who had to clean this place up. Jean-François had to pull her away from the entrance, all the while smiling at her excitement.

Where Jean-François was all angles, his sister’s face was round and smooth as moon. They had little in common safe for their heights and brown curls. Gabrielle’s many bangles clanked as she reached out to Betty for the customary cheek pecks— four in Paris.

“We start with the sculptures. Yes?”

It seemed her sister-in-law knew the place by heart. She led them through galleries to the exhibition she wished to see. Betty clutched the floor plan brochure, already disoriented. Thankfully, few people roamed the museum, so no crowd to get lost in.

 

A staircase opened onto a sort of inner courtyard under a glass dome, a wide opened space all white marble and topiaries. The warm hues of the setting sun turned the statues’ pale stone skin to rosy flesh. At first, Betty blushed at the sculptures’ nudity. She soon overcame her prudery as she became enthralled with the amazing details: bulging veins in a neck, calloused fingertips, curling hair, layers of cloth, pain and anger etched on a face. Most of the sculptures she’d seen in her life were weather-worn and covered in pigeon excrements. These were hundreds of years old and still pristine. Did the artists know it would last so long? And what about these men and women who had posed for them? She could barely wrap her head around all the work involved so she could admire this work of art today. 

 

She caught Jean-François observing her over the shoulder of _Leda and the Swan._

“What?”

“You are enjoying yourself.”

“Yeah… Why the look?”

He shrugged and walked around the sculpture, closer to Betty.

“I like to see you happy. I know you have been stressed.”

“No, I’m fine.”

She walked to the next sculpture. Truth was, she didn’t want to bother him with her worries and fears. She had to prove she could do this: travel, adapt, be a good wife. He had enough on his mind already. She didn’t want to be a burden. She didn’t want to disappoint him.

 

Gabrielle explaining Michelangelo’s chisel technique provided a distraction, but Jean-François caught up to her as soon as his sister walked away.

“ _Ma belle_ , you know I worry more when you don’t tell me things.”

She lowered her eyes, and he caressed her cheek.

“Well, I do too, you know… At your work, it’s not going well, is it?”

His hand dropped, and he clenched his jaw. “It’s complicated.”

“But my troubles aren’t? Simple, that, women’s problems,” she mumbled. “Sorry.”

“Let’s not talk about this right now.”

“When?”

“Later.”

Betty nodded without much conviction and followed him farther in the exhibit. It proved difficult to appreciate the artwork while aware of tension building between them like thick fog. Every time their eyes met, they looked away quickly. The night had been off to such a promising start. She regretted bringing up his work.

 

At the end of the room, she sat on a bench, fiddling with the hem of her skirt, as she waited for Gabrielle to finish her visit. Jean-François sat down next to her and lit a cigarette. He could be hard to read, even for her. It was a professional quirk of sort, to put up a casual front, spying without being spied. However placid his face, he wasn’t talking or looking at her, and that told her everything she needed to know. When he stifled a yawn, she asked:

“D’you wanna go home?”

“Do you?”

“No, no. There’s lots left to see. I’m fine. But if you’re tired…” Her lips strained into a smile.

“I’m fine. What do you want to see next?” he asked.

“Dunno.” She perused the crumpled floor plan. “Anything’s good.”

He opened his mouth to say something, but Gabrielle joined them at that moment, and he clammed up. On the way to the medieval room, the siblings spoke in French. Betty only understood Gabrielle asking if he was all right, but much more was said.

 

Much like the era it represented, this part of the exhibition was dark and stuffy. An entire furniture set from the 1300’s crowded the room along with rows of glass cases protecting manuscripts and jewelry, and ghastly crucifixes hung on the walls. Betty found herself staring at a large tapestry without really seeing it, her thoughts crisscrossed like its threads, faded blues and reds blurred before her eyes.

“Oh, this is like you and my brother.”

“How d’you mean?”

“Mary Tudor, English, marries Louis XII, French.” Gabrielle pointed at the two characters at the center of the piece.

“Yeah, how did that turn out?”

“I don’t understand the question.”

“Nevermind.”

 

They continued walking through the displays of religious art. Jean-François stayed by her side, silent, lost in thoughts. She didn’t like it one bit. She took his hand and pulled him to a corner of the room.

“Talk to me, please.”

He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. “You should go back to England.”

Betty’s heart sank, and tears pricked her eyes. “ What? But— by myself?”

“Don’t worry, ma belle. I’ll join you later, when I’m done here.”

“Will you, really?”

“Yes, of course.”

Betty searched his face, trying to understand. She didn’t want to leave Paris, no matter how difficult the adaptation had been. It was her first time out of Yorkshire and she didn’t speak the language, but it would get easier over time. Most of all she didn’t want to leave him. But if he thought her a nuisance…

“I can see that you regret coming with me to Paris,” he added.

“What?” Betty brought a hand to her chest. “Oh, Jean-François, no, not all. It’s hard, is all… D’you regret bringing me?”

“No. You are my love. I want you with me. But if you are happier in Leeds, I will not keep you.”

“I’m not happier in Leeds, believe me.”

“Really?”

“I mean it… I mean, you’re right, I’m stressed and I didn’t want you to know, but I want to stay with you. I’ll get better, I promise. You’ll be proud of me.”

“I already am. I think you are doing very well.” Jean-François pressed his lips to her knuckles and smiled. “Tomorrow, we will talk.”

“About your work too?”

“Yes. But tonight, we enjoy art.”

Their arms instinctively wrapped around each other to seal the reconciliation with an embrace. She melted against him, and a feeling of safety washed over her the likes of which she hadn’t felt since arriving in Paris.  They’d both been so preoccupied that even when alone their worries had crowded the space between them. Jean-François’ sigh ruffled her hair, and she rubbed his back. They reluctantly let go and continued the visit. Gabrielle smiled at their hands clasped together.

 

They entered a long gallery, high burgundy walls arched above their heads, joined by gold quatrefoil.  Once again, Betty didn’t know where to look between the room itself and the artworks. Gabrielle talked and talked about the painters and themes, and Betty made a valiant effort to understand. Vermeer, Rembrandt, Van Hoogstraten, she recognized none of the names, but she loved the tranquility emanating from their canvases.

 

Upon closer inspection, she noticed something familiar on some of the paintings representing interiors: white and blue tiles on the wall, just like the ones in Jean-François’ Leeds home. The same hand-painted Delft ceramic she’d admired so. Betty and Jean-François exchanged a knowing look. It was all coming full circle.

 

A _trompe l’oeil_ painting caught Betty’s eyes, and she stayed behind to take a better look at it. _View of an interior or the slippers_. It seemed to have no subject to speak of, yet she was sure it told a story. The painting’s perspective created the impression of being in a room and looking into another one across the hall. It pulled her in, made her an accomplice of the hidden characters. She noticed the objects: a broom against the wall, keys forgotten in the lock, discarded slippers on the floor, a book cast aside on a table. It dated from 1658, yet the scene resonated with her.

“What do you think is happening in that room?” Jean-François’ voice close to her ear startled her.

“I’d say someone was in a hurry.”

He read the description next to the painting and smirked. “You are right. But in a hurry to do what? Where has the mistress of the house run to?”

The way he whispered the question and encircled her waist, gave her a hint. She understood then why the scene felt familiar.

“She’s abandoned her chores, hasn’t she?” Betty answered. “You know, maybe she’s still there. In a part of the room we can’t see. And maybe she’s not alone.”

“Who is she with?” He pulled her closer.

“Oh, I dunno, maybe…” She bit her bottom lip and glanced at him. “Maybe with some dashing French colonel who seduced her away from her work?”

Jean-François laughed and kissed her head. “I believe that happens. What are they doing?”

Plenty of scenarios came to mind, inspired by her own experience— their own experience. She realized that in the whirlwind of packing, traveling, settling in and meeting everyone, that aspect of their life had been neglected. Before she could answer Jean-François, Gabrielle joined them. She explained that every object in the painting, in its own way, symbolized negligence and loose morals.

“The extinguished candle, for example, is a symbol of time wasted. People in that time would know the signification.”

 

Gabrielle showed them other work by the same painter. Jean-François and Betty strolled arm-in-arm around the room. As they admired a large seaside landscape, he gently stroked her exposed shoulder. Careless touches at first, until he trailed his hand up to her neck. He sought the sensitive skin under her hair, the spot that made her body tingle. The smooth brush of his fingers with the occasional light scratch of her scalp soon made her forget everything around her. Everything but him. She leaned further into him, seeking more affection.

“Ma belle?”

He looked at her with hooded eyes, his face inches from hers, and she simply leaned in for a kiss. He smiled against her lips and tugged her closer. That simple movement, the hint of fire and possessiveness, made desire flare in the pit of her stomach. When they parted, she pressed her hands to her cheeks, scared their colouring betrayed her yearning.

“Come.”

He pulled away from the room and in the hallway. They fitted themselves into a dark spot between two marble pillars. Betty crossed her wrists behind his neck, and they kissed unhurriedly. She loved the span of his fingers on her waist, and the low rumble of pleasure in his chest. When he started pulling away, she tightened her hold on his neck and caught his bottom lip between her teeth. He quirked an eyebrow at her, and she replied with fluttering eyelashes. They exchanged a sultry look, and he led her away with a firm hand on her lower back. They left Gabrielle to Dutch paintings and entered the Spanish arts wing.

 

In a narrow room, adjoining the main gallery, they found a temporary exhibition of precursors of modern art. They surveyed the room, pretending to look at the paintings when, in fact, they were making sure they were alone. Jean-François’ hand roamed lower down her back, and she became acutely aware of its warmth. She leaned back into his touch, and he kissed her head. He aimed for her lips next, but she walked away— she was in a playful mood.

 

“I don’t really understand this one,” Betty said, indicating a huge abstract painting.

“Me neither,” he admitted. “Gabrielle says we have to take the time to appreciate this kind of artwork.”

They sat together on the quilted bench facing the canvas. Her feet hurt from standing in heels for so long so she toed them off.

“Tell me what you see in the painting,” he asked.

“Oh, I— I dunno. I’m no expert like your sister.”

“She would tell you there are no right or wrong answer.”

Betty tilted her head in contemplation, and Jean-François swiped her hair to the side, trailing his fingers along her jawbone.

“So?” he asked, although his lips on her pulse point made it obvious he had no intention of facilitating her artistic musings.

“The shapes, they’re all round and curvy…”

“Curves, how lovely.” He smoothed a hand over her waist and kissed her neck again.

“It’s like waves… or flames.”

“Which one is it?”

“Neither, it’s biomorphic abstraction.”

“You learned your lesson well.”

“I thought it was interesting.”

He smiled and kissed her.

“It could be people, bodies too,” she added.

“Bodies? Tell me more about that.”

She wasn’t surprised when his hand sneaked under her skirt to rest on her knee, she blushed nonetheless, and her eyes darted around the room to make sure they were alone. At least, they had their backs to the entrance.  His thumb stroked her skin in slow circles, deliberate circle to remind her of what these fingers could do. She did nothing to stop him.

“It’s like they’re dancing, like… oh, it’s daft.”

“Tell me, _ma belle_.”

“Like silhouettes… on a cave wall.”

“Like cave paintings?”

“No, like— like they’re dancing in a cave and there’s a fire in the middle, so it’s their shadows, flickering like the flames.”

Jean-François’ hand inched higher up on her thigh, his mouth still at her throat. Her pulse quickened and drummed in her ear.

“What colours do you see?” he whispered.

She took in a shaky breath and looked back at the large canvas before her.

“I see red, erm, orange, purple… it’s hard to tell, they’re all mixed together.”

His fingers pressed into the cushy flesh of her thigh. “Tell me more.”

“They’re warm colours, thick—”

She whimpered as he teased the seam of her thighs. She could hardly focus with all her senses honing in on his touch.

“ _Très bien, ma belle_. Go on.”

“It’s old, but the paint, it don’t look dry… like it’s dripping.”

“Like you?”

He ran a finger, featherlight, over her underwear causing more wetness to seep out of her. She turned her blushing face to his shoulder. He kept his fingertips poised at the apex of her thighs, too far for pleasure, too close to ignore.

“Show me,” he said.

She frowned as he kneeled on the floor in front of her. He trailed his hands up her calves to her knees and pushed lightly.

“Here?” she asked.

“If you want to.”

But he knew as well as her that any protestation would be all show. The room was empty and no sound announced incoming visitors. She met his eyes and parted her legs. He pushed her skirt further up, baring her to his view. He ran his warm palms up and down her inner thighs.

“The only work of art I’m interested in seeing.”

“Oh, shut up.”

He chuckled and kissed her knee, then the other, and she gasped as he continued higher up.

“I like this, when the lace clings to you… I wonder, is it the perfect male bodies of marble statues that aroused you like this?”

Betty shook her head. He dropped his mouth to her thighs once more, more bite than kiss.

“What, then?”

“You.”

He teased the edge of her underwear, then let his thumb sink over the crotch until he met her clit. Betty tensed and bit back a moan.

“Shhhh.”

He pulled her knickers to the side and rested his cheek on her leg. She thought of all those women displayed in the museum who had posed naked for hours. Muses. Is this how they’d felt?

His fingers finally spread her open for him. She shivered at the feel of his breath, and finally there was his tongue, just the tip, as if catching a drip of moisture. Her nails dug in the bench when his tongue delved deeper, lazy, calculated swipes, exploring her, cataloguing the spots that made her shiver. Sweat beaded on her forehead, and she fought closing her eyes in case someone came in.

Betty’s pleasure increased exponentially with every lick. When he closed his lips over her clit, she had to clamp a hand over her mouth. Then a finger, probing gently, a keener kind of pleasure.

“Faster,” she murmured.

He obliged her, a deep, steady pump that had her writhing back and forth on the bench.

“How does it make you feel?” he asked.

“So good.”

“No, the painting.”

He slowed his finger down to a more manageable level. Frustrating as it was, it allowed her to focus on the painting. The shapes seemed to come at her, jumping then receding, an impossible ebb and flow. Jean-François’ eyes fixated on her from between her legs.

“Pulsing,” she said. “Like blood. Alive.”

“ _Oui_!”

He pushed in a second finger, eyes still on her. Oh, the sight of him with his impeccable hair and straight suit, framed by her thighs, picture perfect safe for his lips, glazed with her juices. She couldn’t tell love from lust as it swelled in her.

 

Voices interrupted them. They jumped apart. Jean-François scrambled to his feet as Betty arranged her skirt and looked for her shoes. He offered his assistance to pull her up to her shaky legs.

 

He dragged her to the next room, pinned her against the wall, and kissed her. A tangy kiss, spiced with laughter and relief. Amusement gave way to craving, when their hips collided, revealing Jean-François’ state. She rubbed against him on purpose, unsatisfied, wanton. He rested his forehead against her, breathing through clenched teeth as he tried to reign in his body’s reaction.

“What do we do now?” she whispered.

“Now we continue what we started.”

“We almost got caught.”

“Unless you can wait until we get home,” he said.

“No… _tout de suite_.”

He gave her another heated kiss that had her squirming against him.

“Come.”

He led her by the hand through the room without paying attention to the artworks.

“Do you even know where we’re going?” she asked.

“Pastels.”

 

Up a flight of stairs, a turn to the left, and they entered a dark alcove. Black velvet hung on the walls to keep light away from fragile pastel sketches kept under glass. At the back of the room, a curtain hid a nook with a deep set window, and they slipped behind it. As soon as they were cloaked, their lips met again and their hands roamed each other’s body freely. She never wanted to go back to sneaking behind her husband’s back, but there was something to be said for forbidden delights. She cupped him through his trousers and swallowed his moan.

 

He turned her around, facing the window. The sun had set, and the _Jardin des Tuileries_ stretched under them, dotted with light.

“Shall I describe the landscape?” she teased, already fumbling to remove her knickers.

Jean-François laughed against her neck. She hiked a knee up on the windowsill as he opened his trousers. He lined himself up between her slick thighs, glided across her folds, teasing himself to full hardness. Every brush to her clit made her shiver. Betty brought his hand up to her chest, it slipped in the top of her dress and squeezed her breast roughly. She could imagine the desperation written on his face.

“Now,” she pleaded.

Her entire body trembled with need. He pushed slowly in her, an attempt at control undermined by his tight grip on her waist.  Betty let her head drop back against his shoulder and squeezed him hard inside her. He muffled a French curse against her shoulder.

His thrusts rekindled her lust in a second, bringing her right back to the edge. They had to be quick, and she wanted nothing less. She gripped the window frame, nails scraping the ancient wood as his hand did her hip.

She would taste blood soon, biting her lip this hard. His panting breath was hot against her neck. The air grew damp behind the heavy curtain. Only the fear of being too noisy held them back, but only for so long. She was close, her toes curled, pleasure coiled in her stomach.

“Please,” she whimpered.

 “As you wish.”

He pulled out entirely and slammed back in her. She rested her flushed forehead against the cool glass, tasted condensation as he pounded into her. The city’s lights danced before her eyes. Sparks went off in her blood. His movements became erratic, reckless. He found her hand and repeated her name until they both fell over the edge.

“I can’t believe we just did that,” Betty said, out of breath.

“I can.”

“You already knew this spot, didn’t you?”

“I may have discovered it during a school trip.”

 

He handed her his handkerchief to clean up, and they helped fix each other’s clothes. They exchanged one last jubilant kiss before leaving their refuge. With dopey grins on their faces, they headed for the museum’s exit.

“What about Gabrielle?” Betty asked.

“We can tell her we got lost.”

“Oh, no, she’ll know.”

Jean-François shrugged. “You think she and Armand never did the same?”

Betty shook her head, she’d rather not think about her sister-in-law’s sex life.

 

The evening air was warmer than they’d expected. Jean-François slung his jacket over his shoulder and put his free hand around her waist. Instead of _rue_ Tivoli, he guided her towards the Seine. They strolled right alongside the river, at the same lazy pace as its flow. Under the bridges, Parisians from all horizons fished, and drank and kissed. This time, the silence between them was serene.

“ _La vie, c’est l’amour et l’amour, c’est la vie,”_ sang two young women.

Jean-François stopped a man passing by on a bicycle. Much to Betty’s confusion, he winked at her before giving the man money. He slipped a bottle of wine from under a checkered cloth covering his basket.

“Is this legal?” Betty asked.

“It’s… tolerated.”

They stopped near _Quai de l’horloge_ and sat on the parapet, feet dangling above the dark water. The _Pont Neuf_ ’s stone arches reflected on the still river, creating the illusion of near perfect circles. Betty shivered, and he placed his jacket over her shoulders. They drank from the bottle of wine and talked of their life together in France, making plans she’d never have dared imagine before. Tipsy under the moon, with her love’s fingers threaded through hers, she finally felt like she was right where she belonged.


End file.
